


i want every other freckle

by moeexyz



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Gen, M/M, Multi, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, a soulmate au with zero actual soulmates, also there's a vague sprinkle of shippy kepcobi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 06:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moeexyz/pseuds/moeexyz
Summary: It takes Jacobi an embarrassingly long time to realize Kepler's skin isn’t bare.Or, Jacobi learns he's the only member of SI-5 without a soulmate.





	i want every other freckle

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea months ago, and it's morphed a lot while I tried to write it, so hopefully it comes across the way I intended it.
> 
> Also, I don't think I really explained this cause I didn't want to bog the fic down with tangential exposition, but the way this particular AU works is soulmate pairs have matching symbols somewhere on their bodies. The marks are supposed to work as sort of vague clues to how you and your soulmate meet.
> 
> And again, this fic has zero (0) actual soulmates, so if that's what you came here for, my bad.
> 
> Title from Every Other Freckle by Alt-J

It takes Jacobi an embarrassingly long time to realize Kepler's skin isn’t _bare_.

Kepler wears a watch. It’s heavy, and clunky, and impractical by all of Kepler’s usual standards—and okay, maybe Jacobi should have picked up on that, but Kepler’s not exactly lacking in unpredictable quirks. And the entire point of the watch is clearly to hide what’s _under it_. Jacobi can’t be blamed for…well…falling for it.

Kepler—currently in the passenger seat, stewing—does not acknowledge the fledging glances Jacobi throws his way as he drives. Jacobi could needle him a bit. Kepler hasn’t changed the radio to the stupid jazz station Jacobi hates, just to annoy him, so clearly he’s as thrown as Jacobi feels. Which only makes Jacobi more uncomfortable.

Here’s the thing: Jacobi never connected the dots between _Warren Kepler_ and _soul_ , like somehow Kepler was above it all. Kepler only ever seems human because he can’t be classified as anything else. But Kepler sprained his wrist in the middle of a fistfight, and the watch had to come off, and under the watch sat an ugly burn scar. And somewhere in the middle of Kepler’s mangled skin there was an unmistakable line of black, that Jacobi has grown attuned to after a lifetime of inferiority and resentment.

A soul mark. Or the visible remains of one. Unmistakable proof that Warren Kepler has a soul. Somewhere out there, there is a soul tailor-made to fit his. Jacobi knows something about this is funny, but he can’t quite find the joke.

“How’s the wrist?” Jacobi asks, voice all casual. Not that Kepler ever buys it.

Kepler looks at him from the corner of his eye, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. There’s a message in there somewhere—something like _are you really this stupid?_ or _back off—_ but Jacobi has a history of making life difficult for himself, so he pretends not to notice.

“Is there something you _want_ , Mr Jacobi?”

 _Yes._ There’s this feeling in his chest Jacobi can’t describe. Something tumultuous and spiteful. He wants to look at the disfigured remains of Kepler’s mark again, but he knows Kepler would literally kill him for it. He’s torn between his last shred of self-preservation and an impulse to do it anyway.

He shrugs, playing it cool. “Just weird that we’ve known each other for so long and it’s never come up.”

“It’s never come up because it's not relevant,” Kepler says, without missing a beat.

“So, what was it?”

Kepler waits a beat, then he moves, a predator taking his place. His cold eyes land on Jacobi. Jacobi finds that _he’s_ the one steadfastly staring out the window now, realizing too late that he mistook Kepler’s tense silence for discomfort, rather than the quietly tamped rage it truly is.

With a deceptively calm voice, Kepler asks, “What was _yours_?”

Jacobi takes a breath, shifting his hold on the steering wheel to keep from gripping it too tightly. It makes no difference. Kepler spots the movement, and knows he’s won, Jacobi’s hurt evident in his reaction. It shouldn’t even be a decent evasion tactic, but it stabs Jacobi deep, the way only Kepler could.

Because this is the crux of it: Whether he wants it or not, someone belongs to Kepler and Kepler belongs to them.

And Jacobi’s skin is blank. It’s always been blank.

 

\--

 

The day Daniel Jacobi first learned about soulmates was the day he first learned about death. He doesn’t fully remember how it went down, but he remembers details.

The criss-crossing pattern on the back of his teacher’s neck—forming a sketch of a tree. Her wistful voice as she told the class it links her soul to another. To the one soul on Earth that perfectly fits hers. “It’s not a done deal,” She had said, “But the mark leads the way.”

His mother’s still face when he asked her where his was. She was gentle when she explained—they were still kind to each other, back then—that it goes away when your soulmate dies. That just because someone’s out there for you, doesn’t mean you’ll find them. Doesn’t mean either of you will survive long enough to even try.

The feeling inside himself at this revelation. Cold and empty. Something in him dead before it ever really got a chance to live.

He didn’t ask what the mark was, then, too busy crying about a loss he could barely comprehend. By the time he’d thought to wonder about it, he and his parents were long past the point of being friendly. So, he doesn’t know.

It hardly matters. Most of the time.

 

\--

 

“You knew about it?”

Jacobi’s at Maxwell’s place. He likes it here better than his own place. His apartment’s never been much of anything to him. A place to send his bills, and keep his things. There’s something about sitting on Maxwell’s couch, eating take out that sits right with him, more than anything else in his life.

“It’s not exactly easy to be subtle about it,” says Maxwell. If anyone would know, it’s her. In hindsight, Jacobi should have realized that sooner, too. But they’re usually much nosier about Kepler’s private life. He thought Maxwell would just tell him if she knew.

Maxwell’s mark isn’t the most conspicuous he’s ever seen, but there’s only so many situations you can go without taking off your fingerless gloves, before it becomes obvious what you’re trying to hide. At least her method isn’t as drastic as Kepler’s. Jacobi likes knowing what her mark is, even if it’s essentially nothing to him.

“What do _you_ think it was?” He asks her. So far he has no ideas. Even in the wildest depths of his imagination he can’t imagine a person perfectly suited to someone like Kepler.

Maxwell’s typing next to him, and he hears a stutter in the rhythm of her fingers.

“I don’t think it matters,” She says, diplomatically. He doesn’t miss the slight hint of irritation in her voice.

There’s a half-finished equation forever printed on the back of her left hand. Maxwell claims not to know what it’s for, but when Jacobi’s not busy being an explosives nerd, he’s something of a math nerd. He has a theory that it’s part of a Millennium Problem, but Maxwell never lets him study it long enough to check. He could never really be sure without the other half of the equation, anyway. He likes the idea of it though, like if he solves it he can reprogram Maxwell’s soul to pick him instead.

“You’re not even a little bit curious about what kind of soul matches Kepler’s?” Jacobi asks, skeptical.

“His soul doesn’t match anyone!” Maxwell snaps, hands balled into fists, on the edge of her keyboard. She notices his carefully crafted not-shocked expression, and takes a breath, then steadily continues. “People don’t _belong_ to other people. It’s stupid to let a random fluke of biology dictate this ridiculous notion that we do. People are so sure, even though there’s no science to it whatsoever, as if anecdotal evidence is a definitive explanation for _anything,_ let alone a nonsensical tattoo that supposedly leads you to _the one_.”

Jacobi rolls his head back on the edge of her sofa, blinking thoughtfully at her ceiling. He’s heard this rant from her before, in different variations.

He ignores the vexing feeling that’s been gnawing at him for the last four days—since he saw Kepler’s wrist. “I was just curious.”

She must note something in his voice, because she gives him a look. Not exactly apologetic, but somewhere around there. “It’s not _real_ , Daniel.”

He doesn’t know if the note of pity in her voice is because she knows he must care about this, or because she knows that if it were real it would leave him alone. Forever.

“Yeah, probably,” He says, mostly to assuage her.

She has a point. There must be some fucked up psychological side effect of believing so fervently that you only get one shot at lifelong happiness. Maybe the reason mismatched marriages, like his parents, fail is because they can never live up to the soulmate myth, not because their souls don’t fit. Maybe the reason matching marriages last is because of the placebo effect of the mark. Maybe it’s all just correlation without causation.

On some level, Jacobi agrees with her about all of it. But it’s easy for Maxwell to believe it, because she still has the option. Even if she doesn’t want it now, or ever, there’s a mark on her skin that promises her she’ll never truly be alone in this world.

Jacobi can’t relate.

 

\--

 

Once upon a time, he chooses his own soulmate.

Jacobi has the routine down. He talks around it. Deftly avoids the curious glances people throw at any patch of skin they can see. He slums it with guys who want a little fun under their belt before meeting _the one_. It pisses him off at first, but he learns quickly that his dating prospects are thin enough as it is, without competing with everybody’s possible soulmate, so he doesn’t compete. He makes himself a pit-stop on the way to their destination. He swallows the embarrassment when men instinctively search his body for something they’re not going to find. It’s almost enough. At least he’s not lonely. At least he knows exactly what he’s in for.

Then he meets Klein. Klein isn’t used to it, the way Jacobi is. Klein lost his mark a few years ago. He’s still grieving. He’s going to be grieving for his entire life, but Jacobi doesn’t explain this to him. For once in his life, Jacobi meets someone who has no alternative to him, and he almost feels free. He almost believes he has a choice.

It’s so easy to make Klein his soulmate. Every insecurity from before is quashed so effortlessly by Klein’s bare skin, by the way Klein kisses him—like he matters. It’s almost a solution. But Jacobi never considered how without someone else’s mark to blame, he has no excuse for all the ways he comes up short. And he does. Quite frequently, actually.

So, he works, and Klein works, and in the middle of that a wall emerges between them. Somewhere along the way that freedom from before starts to weigh on Jacobi heavier than another’s mark ever could. Too heavy for Klein to carry.

Jacobi realizes he doesn’t really _get_ to choose. He just gets what he gets. And at the end of it all, when they finally stop pretending, Jacobi finds himself exactly where he started. Alone. Unfit for anyone.

 

\--

 

Jacobi sits in his lab, with his face buried in his hands, and waits. Kepler’s out for his blood today. It’s not entirely unwarranted. Jacobi hasn’t exactly been _on_ lately—his last premature explosion, the latest in a string of small fuckups that have worn down Kepler’s infamously thin patience. A part of him, reckless and impulsive, _wants_ Kepler to tear at him. He can’t explain why. He just needs the…release.

“Oh, good. You got started for me,” comes Kepler’s unamused voice from beside him. Jacobi looks up and finds Kepler leaning against the side of his workbench. Perilously close.

“Sir.” Is all he says. An acknowledgement. The way these things usually work is Kepler berates him, and Jacobi sits there and takes it.

Kepler’s jaw twitches. Jacobi expects him to lay into him, but Kepler doesn’t speak. So, it’s not that kind of fight, then. Kepler’s arms are crossed, his posture easy, even though his rage is obvious. He looms large. Jacobi imagines what it would be like to get away with punching him. Wonders if it would satisfy the itch under his skin.

“Mr Jacobi,” Kepler starts, painfully slow, “is there a _reason_ for your recent incompetence, or are you just _that_ useless, and somehow I have failed to notice.”

Jacobi should play it safe. Kepler’s tone is terse. Not the kind that leaves room for insolence.

And yet, Jacobi finds himself replying sardonically with, “It’s definitely one of those.”

With a disappointed sigh, that’s more for Jacobi’s benefit than anything else, Kepler moves, planting a hand, on the back of Jacobi’s chair, and the other right in front of him, boxing him in. The bandage on Kepler’s wrist has been replaced by the watch again. The watch face is on the inside of his wrist, probably to take up more area.  Jacobi stares at it to keep from peaking at the outlines of the burn scar beneath it, so much more noticeable now that they’ve been noticed.

Kepler’s face is next to his now. Jacobi can feel the hot air from Kepler’s breath bouncing off his cheek.

“Well, I don’t feel like I misjudged you, Mr Jacobi, so _what—_ “ and here Kepler’s voice rises “—pray tell, is the _problem_?”

Jacobi half turns his head so he can look into Kepler’s eyes. They’ve been this close before, with poorer excuses than their current one. But then again, this isn’t one of _those_ situations, regardless of Jacobi’s fucked up feelings about it. Kepler is angry. That’s all this is. Somehow, it’s that that pisses Jacobi off the most. Jacobi glances at the watch—it’s 6:43pm—and then at Kepler. Inhuman, monstrous, _marked_ Kepler. Funny how that works.

Jacobi doesn’t say anything. Kepler must have seen him looking. He can’t drop it, because then Jacobi gets away with all of it. So, either Jacobi gets a warning, or…

All of a sudden, Kepler pounces. The hand on the back of Jacobi’s chair, holds the back of his neck. The other, grips his chin, trapping him, half-twisted in his seat, so that the only place he can look is Kepler’s seething face.

“I will tell you this _once,”_ Kepler says, enunciating every word like he’s trying to sear the message into Jacobi’s memory, “What you _think_ you saw? Does. Not. Matter. It’s gone. My _soul_ has been signed away. _This_ is all there is. Do you understand?”

Jacobi wants to fight. He tastes the bitter tang of dissatisfaction in his throat, and for a split second he wants to shove his mouth against Kepler’s, so he has to taste it too. But this isn’t that kind of fight, either.

“Yes, sir,” He hisses through his teeth.

Kepler releases him, abruptly, stepping away in one fluid motion. Jacobi expects him to leave, forgetting about this forever, all things back in their rightful place, but Kepler hesitates. For a moment, his anger is replaced with a thoughtful expression, and without looking back at Jacobi, Kepler says, “You should consider yourself lucky, you didn’t have to fight for this _choose your own adventure_ lifestyle you live.”

And with that he’s gone.

Jacobi blinks, suddenly, so irrationally angry he can barely see straight. _Lucky?_ He fights _._ His entire life has been one fight after another to prove he still has a fucking place in this god damn universe. He’s fighting _right now,_ and the more he does, the angrier Kepler gets. He didn’t choose this adventure. He simply followed the singular path destiny had laid out for him. And it’s still meaningless, so what kind of luck is that?

 

\--

 

On the periphery of Klein, there is Kepler, the way there always is. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Jacobi is not actually an idiot. He knows wishful thinking when he sees it—he’s the expert in it. It’s not an issue, his Kepler thing. He’s had many _Kepler Things_. He’s well versed in swallowing them away.

The two of them do their dance—they poke at each other, and pull at proverbial pigtails, and very deliberately do nothing more—and at the end of the day Jacobi goes to Maxwell, or Klein, or a stranger in a bar, and Kepler goes wherever he goes, with plausible deniability sitting safely in his pocket.

So, Jacobi’s not, like, _freaked_ _out_ about the mark. It makes very logical sense. Regardless of what Kepler would have him believe, he is a person, and people have marks—most of the time.

It pinches a nerve though, because—and here’s that pesky wishful thinking, again—in a twisted way he thought they…matched. Their skin was similarly empty, and they both devoted their entire existence to Goddard Futuristics. In a roundabout sort of way, they both chose—

Except Jacobi doesn’t get a choice. And the consequences of Kepler’s are forever charred onto his skin, haunting Jacobi, eroding away any sense of stability he thought he might have had.

Jacobi doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t glance to the watch around Kepler’s wrist. He doesn’t think of every empty sexual experience he’s shared with someone who belonged to someone else. He breathes, and he works. He’s fine.

 

\--

 

They’re in some middle-of-nowhere town at some middle-of-nowhere gas station halfway between Canaveral and their next mission. Jacobi is in the back seat, pretending to sleep under his sunglasses, that he’s pretty sure he stole from Kepler, some years back. He’s trying focus on the piercing pain of his hangover, so he can pretend not to see the concerned glances Maxwell keeps throwing him in the rearview mirror. Oh, sure, just because _she’s_ never shown up at his apartment drunk, the night before a mission, _she_ gets to be all judgmental about him doing it. Whatever.

Jacobi avoids her gaze by watching Kepler outside the SUV, filling up the tank. Kepler hasn’t spoken more than two words to him, which, if anything, justifies all the drinking, seeing as Jacobi’s clearly still in the doghouse. It also adds to Maxwell’s worry, which is annoying, mostly because it makes Jacobi feel guilty.

Kepler heads inside to pay. Maxwell sighs, a mixture of disappointment, and resignation.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Jacobi insists, whining a little.

“Okay, Daniel,” Maxwell says, possibly the worst attempt at placating Jacobi has ever heard.

“You know, usually when he’s mad at me you’re on _my_ side,” Jacobi mutters, a little petulant.

She turns around in her seat, so he can’t avoid her eyes anymore. “I _am_ on your side. I’m just not sure what your side is.”

Jacobi shrugs, the way he used to as a teenager, when he was looking to pick a fight with his father.

“Look, it’s like, ever since you realized Kepler used to have a mark, you’ve been spiraling, and I’m just trying to understand _why_ so I can help you.” Her voice is unbearably kind. Jacobi would rather crawl into a hole and die than listen to her speak to him like this. “Is it because you...want Kepler, or something? I don’t—"

“It’s not about just Kepler,” He interrupts quickly, glancing out the window. Kepler’s still inside, talking to the cashier. Making fake jovial chitchat for his own amusement, Jacobi's sure. “You two have this idea in your head that I have all the freedom in the world, to live my life exactly how I want it, but that’s not how it works. I’m stuck with what I got. And, for a hot minute there, I’d convinced myself that there was a different way my life could go, but there isn’t. There’s just _one_ way, and you two aren’t…” He trails off, lamely. 

Maxwell frowns at him. “Jacobi, you _do_ have freedom. You’re not bogged down by some stupid, made up biological—“

“Right!” He snaps. “So I’ve heard.”

She takes a breath. She’s trying not to get frustrated with him. Jacobi doesn’t really want her to be. He hates when she’s mad at him. Kepler’s one thing, but he can’t handle being anything but okay with Maxwell.

“Why do you care so much? These things—they shouldn’t matter,” She says, patiently.

“But they do,” He says. He looks out the window again, to stave off the anxiety pooling in his stomach. “We live in a world where all of this has weight. You can’t guarantee you won’t meet the person on the other end of that mark, one day, and suddenly realize _that’s_ the person for you.”

He finally looks at her, trying to will her to understand.

Stubbornly, she insists, “If they’re the person for me, they won’t want it either.”

Her words prick at him, stinging at his very core, and he feels his last shred of self-restraint melting away.

“Fine,” He says, nonchalance so forced it probably loops back around to the obvious irritation it truly is. “You’re above it! You beat biology. Congratulations.”

A hurt expression clouds her face, and Jacobi swiftly hates himself and every stupid thing he’s ever said. She gives him a pleading look. Jacobi wishes he could leave, just walk out of the car and her life, and save her from the misery of having to deal with his bullshit.

“Daniel, what do you _want_?”

There is no possible way for Jacobi to explain this to her. She’s never wanted her mark. To her, it’s all a useless bit of programming—an obsolete function unrelated to everything else. Even if he could find the words, she’d never get it.

Before he can answer, the driver’s door swings open, and Kepler’s back in his seat, interrupting any sense of safety Jacobi may have felt. If Kepler notices the tension, he doesn’t make any show of it, starting the car like neither of them are even there. Maxwell must realize that her opportunity has passed. She gives Jacobi one last apologetic look before turning away.

 

\--

 

Towards the end of his crumbling relationship with Klein, Jacobi throws himself into work. If he’s not in his own lab, he’s in Maxwell’s, or in Kepler’s office, or playing MarioKart at Maxwell’s apartment, or eating team dinner at Kepler’s place, or at the bar with one or both of them. He doesn’t spend longer than five minutes at his own apartment for a solid month. He spends just about the same with Klein.

When he feels overwhelmed with all the ways he’ll never measure up to the kind of person Klein _should_ be with, he finds Maxwell and he finds Kepler. He finds somewhere where he is _known_.

There’s a moment, when everything comes crashing to it’s inevitable end—he and Klein are mid-fight and every raw and vicious emotion Jacobi’s ever felt is bared for Klein to see, missing the mark, even still.

For a masochistic poke at his own scabs, Jacobi asks Klein, “What happened to choosing our own soulmates?”

And Klein stares at him, eyes watering with a betrayal so sharp, Jacobi wonders why he’s not bleeding from it.

Softly, he tells Jacobi, “You’d have to choose _me_ for that.”

 

\--

 

Jacobi doesn’t think, a fatal flaw of his, he knows.

The mission’s kind of a mess. They’re just about outnumbered. There’s three guys on Kepler, or more accurately, Kepler’s on three guys, while Maxwell tries to finish hacking the lab’s systems to get whatever stupid file they came here for, and Jacobi oscillates between fighting two other guys, and trying to rig the building to blow.

There’s a brief moment, where things fall into place. Kepler efficiently taking down the three mooks, just as Maxwell breaks the last firewall, just as Jacobi sets the countdown to start and shoots the two guys that have been on him.

He breathes. And then he sees them. They’re not _just about_ outnumbered. They’re severely outnumbered. Four more gain on Kepler and Maxwell, quickly—one with a knife. Kepler’s hovering over Maxwell’s shoulder, and neither of them are paying attention, and if Jacobi thought about it for, like, a second, he’d just yell out a warning to Kepler before jumping into the fray next to him. But, hey, that’s Jacobi. He doesn’t think. 

He manages to get a couple of punches in, before they overwhelm him. They’re all bigger than him, and he can _feel_ it, in every hit they land. One gets him in the face, and while he’s trying to blink through the pain, knife guy manages to get a slice in. Jacobi screams out, but he’s interrupted by another guy, who sends a sock to his ribs, and knocks all the air out of him. It’s like he’s a god damn punching bag.

Kepler must have caught on by now, seeing as knife guy doesn’t seem to be around anymore. Jacobi throws an aimless punch—still half-blind from the black eye that’s surely forming on his face—and swings wide. A guy gets Jacobi’s head between his hands, and brings it straight down to his knee.

Jacobi hears a banging sound somewhere behind him—gunshots? The guy who was gripping his head lets him go, and Jacobi stumbles, suddenly hit with a painful wave of nausea. _Ah, shit._

He can hear voices, but his brain is screaming at him and he can’t focus. His heart is racing, adrenaline and panic mixing, viciously. He tries to walk, but it’s like gravity is gone. They’ve done training for Zero G. He should be able to handle this. But he stumbles, and the only thing stopping him from crashing face-first onto the floor, is the arm gripped around his waist.

“Daniel,” He hears Maxwell whisper in his ear. He puts his arm around her shoulder to steady himself. His head feels too heavy.

The arm around him shifts, pulling away, and he hears Maxwell’s voice again, much more urgent now. “Is that blood?”

Right. _Knife guy,_ he thinks, before his vision goes black.

Time moves in fits and starts.

He’s thrown over someone’s shoulder. He tries to open his eyes, and sees the indistinct shape of Maxwell, back turned to him, picking out guys trying to follow them. And then his head feels too heavy again.

He hears a boom, feeling the heat of it bouncing off his face, though he’s vaguely aware that he’s safe from it’s impact.

Voices mingle around him—Kepler’s furious, Maxwell’s frenzied.

At some point, they’re in the car, and something’s prickling at his side. Kepler’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and exasperated. _Idiot_. There’s a gloved hand on his arm though. He wants to hold it.

He wakes up. Properly. His eyes stay open, and it’s like his brain comes back online. He’s on the motel bed. It’s dark. His entire body hurts. He sits up and grunts, suddenly, from the crushing weight of his own head.

“Hey,” Maxwell says, softly, from somewhere to his left. “Careful, you’re in pretty bad shape.”

“Really?” He raises his face to look at her, grimacing through it. “Barely noticed.”

She gives him a tiny, relieved smile.

“Where’s—“ He starts, but he doesn’t get a chance to finish.

“Were you hit with a sudden onset amnesia, Mr Jacobi?”

Jacobi winces. He doesn't make a smart comment about his obvious concussion. But he wants to.

Kepler’s leaning against the wall behind Maxwell, half in shadow. His arms are crossed, watching Jacobi with an unimpressed look on his face. Jacobi’s kind of over it, if he’s being perfectly fucking honest.

“Because I can’t imagine any other reason why the _months_ of training I put you through didn’t cross your mind, while you were busy getting the _shit_ kicked out of you in there.”

Jacobi grits his teeth through the ringing pain, Kepler’s voice has set off, and takes a breath. He’s abruptly hit with a vicious anger. The same anger he’s been feeling these last few days, but worse—exacerbated by the pain of his concussion, and the stitches in his side from the slash Knife Guy gave him, and the relentless pain of Kepler yelling at him when all he was _trying_ to do was help.

“Gee, sorry, for saving your life, Major,” He spits.

“You took a stupid risk,” Kepler says, ignoring him.

Jacobi snorts, bitter and humourless. “Again, saving _you._ ”

Jacobi’s sick of this. He’s already beat up, he doesn’t need Kepler to rant at him just so Kepler can make himself better for screwing up for, like, one second in the last however many years he’s been doing this. Cause how _dare_ Jacobi have his back, right? He doesn’t fucking need this.

He gets up, ignoring the fifty different surges of pain in various parts of his body.

“Jacobi—“ Maxwell tries.

“That’s not how this team works,” Kepler tells him, sternly, trampling over Maxwell’s worried pleas.

“Right!” Jacobi shouts, a little hysterical. He turns around to face Kepler, meeting his eyes. Kepler looks slightly taken aback, and Jacobi gets a spiteful thrill out of that.

“Because, _god forbid_ any of us ever admitted what this team actually is! We’re all professionals here.”

Kepler blinks at him, confusion leaking in to his expression. He's losing his grip on the conversation, which only gives Jacobi more steam. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Jacobi says, evenly. “It doesn’t matter. Remember?”

Kepler's still processing this when recognition flashes across Maxwell’s face. She finally gets it. She opens her mouth to speak, but Jacobi doesn’t have it in him. He can fight Kepler on this, but he won’t fight her.

“ _It’s fine!”_ He shouts at the ceiling, so he doesn’t have to see the hurt on her face.

“What is _this_?” She asks him, gently. “They’re just stupid marks. Why do you care if we—"

Suddenly getting it, Kepler frowns. "You're  _still_ on this?"

“ _You’re_ the ones with the choice!” Jacobi bursts out. “You chose to be here. You chose for them not to matter to you! You get to have that! And I’m just—“

And then he freezes. He’s hit suddenly with how stupid this all is. This doesn’t _matter._ They don’t care. They never have. They’re not going to start now, just because, what? He’s insecure? Who gives a shit? He gets what he gets. He’s always known this.

“You know what? _I’m_ the one who leaves this time,” Jacobi spits, grabbing his jacket from the corner of the bed.

“You have a concussion!” Maxwell calls out after him.

He shrugs overdramatically, before slamming the door behind him.

 

\--

 

Jacobi has, of course, fantasized. He used to read articles about late bloomers. People whose soulmates were their younger siblings, or their children, or nieces and nephews--whose mark's don't show until their mate is born. It could happen sometimes, where romantic love had nothing to do with it. Sometimes Jacobi thinks that would be even nicer. But he doesn’t have siblings, and he’s never cared about kids.

Sometimes he pretends it’s all been some huge fluke. There was some stupid mistake, all these years, and doctors find a mark on his body, tiny, hidden away. Sometimes this leads to a stranger. But mostly it doesn’t.

It most frequently leads to Maxwell, because he thinks she’s the only one who’d genuinely take him. He imagines all best friends must wish they were soulmates at some point. And they’d feel so smug about it, because not everyone gets to have what they have. Maxwell wouldn’t even care that she never wanted it. She’d want it with him.

Sometimes, it leads to Kepler, and that’s different too. They’re not _in love_. It doesn’t matter how much Kepler likes him, he’d never have that. But they have an understanding. They function together. A machine of perfect efficiency. And they have fun, that’s a constant too. He thinks Kepler would find that acceptable.

But the fantasies aren't about _just_ the mark, or  _just_  Maxwell, or _just_ Kepler. It’s him. He _wants_.

This is the truth of it: He loves Maxwell more than he’s ever loved anything, and on the back of her hand is a map to someone else. He’d die if Kepler asked him to, but the one person in this world Kepler truly owns is hidden beneath a violent scar on his wrist. Jacobi has an empty soul, and nothing to show for it. He wants proof. He wants it printed on his body so everybody knows.

He belongs to _them_. That’s his choice.

He wants it to be real.

 

\--

 

It takes two hours for Maxwell to find him. Or maybe she was just giving him time to blow off steam. He’s in pretty bad shape, it’s not like he could have gotten very far. Plus, there’s a bar next to the motel. Jacobi’s a creature of self-destructive habits.

He has a whiskey sitting in front of him, but he hasn’t drank any of it. The ice in it has probably watered it down by now.

Maxwell sits on the stool next to him, and takes him in for a second.

“Okay,” She says, firmly.

Jacobi throws her a sideways glance. She has a determined look on her face, the one she gets when Kepler tells her not to do something she’s going to do anyway. Jacobi's usually proud of her for it, as he is for any rebellion against Kepler they can pull off.

“Okay, what?”

“I will get matching tattoos with you, if that’s what you need,” She teases.

Despite himself, Jacobi smiles. The movement sends another shot of pain through him, but he power through.

“I don’t think I want us to be those desperate wannabes who get fakeout marks. It's a little too _Dr Phil_ for me,” He jokes.

Maxwell grins at him, happy just to hear him being himself again. Jacobi feels terrible for being so difficult. The universe was right not to make them soulmates. He doesn’t deserve someone like her.

“Hey, I’m just trying to meet you halfway,” Maxwell says, bumping his shoulder, lightly.

“You don’t have to,” Jacobi tells her. And he’s being honest about that. “I was being stupid. If it doesn’t matter to you then it doesn’t matter.”

Maxwell watches him, carefully. It doesn’t look like she pities him. More like she’s seeing him for the first time, and it simply makes her sad. Jacobi stares at the whiskey glass, so he doesn't have to face her any longer.

“It does to you,” She says, kindly.

Jacobi shrugs. He doubts he pulled off the carelessness he was going for, but Maxwell is usually mercifully ignorant when that happens.

Maxwell sighs, and puts a gloved hand over the back of his. It’s the mark hand—something they’re both hyperaware of.

“Look,” She says, sounding less certain than before, but more honest. “You said we’re the ones with the choice, right?”

She waits for him to nod.

“Well…then I’m choosing. It’s you. You’re it for me.”

Jacobi turns his hand so their palms are facing, threading his fingers between hers. “You could never be sure of that,” He tells her, because it’s the harsh truth. He knows where this road leads. He's read the articles.

“I am sure. It’s not a bug, it’s a feature.” Her voice sounds so definite. Like she really means it. It smooths down some of Jacobi’s anxieties, and he feels still for the first time in a while. He doesn’t feel like a total lost cause with her. Jacobi’s not convinced, but he’s not angry anymore. And he loves her. Eventually, that has to be enough, right?

“Okay,” He says.

She gives him a tender smile, pulling her hand away as she hops off the stool. She holds it out to him again, as she waits for him to follow.

“Come on. The Major’s waiting.”

He takes it.

“So, what are the odds he’s going to drive us out into the desert and execute me?” He jokes.

She snorts, cheerfully. “Slimmer than you think.”

 

\--

 

Maxwell falls asleep in the backseat. Jacobi wants to sleep too, but the concussion is still a _thing._ He feels exhausted, all of today’s fuck ups hitting him like a freight train. He runs through the periodic elements in his head, just to make sure his memory hasn’t taken any extreme damage. It doesn’t do much for his drowsiness.

“Sir, I know you don’t want to talk, right now, but I’m about to pass out again if you don’t distract me,” He says.

It seems, for a moment, like Kepler’s going to ignore him, and just let brain damage take him in the passenger seat, but then his hand moves from the gear shift, and he turns on the radio. To the annoying jazz station. 

Jacobi snorts in amusement. “Thank you, sir.”

Kepler nods, a vague gesture of truce. Jacobi figures that’ll be the end of any social interaction for the night, but then Kepler speaks.

“Do you remember what I told you?”

When Jacobi doesn’t answer his vague question, he adds, “About my…soul.”

_Huh._

“Your soul has been signed away,” Jacobi says, watching Kepler’s profile for some hint of where this is going.

Kepler nods again. “There is no Warren Kepler. There is simply what Goddard needs me to be.”

Jacobi mulls this over. “Is that why you burned it off?”

Kepler’s expression hardens, slightly. “We’re not talking about my mark, Mr Jacobi,” He says, though his voice lacks the usual threat.

“Then what _are_ we talking about?”

Kepler looks at him. It’s the first time he’s looked at Jacobi through this entire conversation. It hits Jacobi that this moment isn’t just some professional formality Kepler feels he needs to do, as Jacobi’s superior. This moment means something.

Kepler says, “ _You_ signed that same contract. You are whatever… _Goddard Futuristics_ needs you to be,” He pauses, meeting Jacobi’s eyes again, and this time they stay there for a while, as close to sincerity as Kepler gets.

“ _That_ was the choice we both made,” He finishes, finally turning back to the road in front of him. Jacobi keeps watching him though.

He’s not sure if this is a weak attempt at comforting him or if…Kepler just wants to explain himself. He can’t really fathom either one being true. Jacobi should accept that this is the best he’s going to get, but it’s not enough anymore. He still feels unsettled, and no matter how many platitudes Kepler and Maxwell throw his way, he’s never going to be entirely sure.

“It’d be nice to have something to show for it,” He tells Kepler, honestly.

Kepler nods, considering Jacobi’s words.

“You remember Istanbul?”

Jacobi frowns. Istanbul was a shit show. It was before Maxwell joined SI-5. Kepler had gotten shot in the stomach, somehow still finding the energy to shout orders at Jacobi as he was bleeding out on the tile floor of some Turkish lab. Jacobi had to drag him out of there, while taking out every guard that came for them, while carrying a briefcase full of documents Goddard wanted. He’d gotten shot in the right shoulder, with Kepler passed out on his left. They barely made it to the extraction point.

“Sure,” He says, easily.

Kepler hesitates, like he’s thinking very carefully about what he's going to say. He seems to make a decision, nodding absently to himself.

“You still have that bullet wound?”

And everything Kepler’s trying to say clicks into place. Jacobi smiles, surprised Kepler has enough empathy in him to give him this. To give him anything at all, after his week-long temper tantrum.

Jacobi doesn't reply, Kepler’s eyes flick towards him, amusement dancing through the flashes from passing streetlights. He quirks an eyebrow at Jacobi, knowing the answer anyway.

“Unlikely that’ll be going away anytime soon.”

Jacobi thinks of the line of stitches on his side, courtesy of Knife Guy. The latest in a wide collection of scars he’s gotten from missions over the years. From protecting Kepler and Maxwell. From signing his life away to Goddard Futuristics.

“I guess you’re right, Sir.”

Kepler doesn’t smile, but he lets some affection slip through. Jacobi smiles back at him anyway.

They sit in silence again, but Jacobi finds himself feeling more energized, now. Practically giddy.

“Major, this radio station is garbage,” He says.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kepler smirk.

 

\--

 

Daniel Jacobi is long past the point of believing in destiny, but a man at a bar leaves him a card for Goddard Futuristics, and that sure feels like _something._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>   * The [Millennium Prize Problems](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Millennium_Prize_Problems) are seven maths problems stated in 2000, and only one of them has been solved. I, and by proxy Jacobi, figured Maxwell's soulmate would have to be one of the smartest people on Earth, so this is our theory.
>   * I have an outline for a Minlace fic, and a vague idea for something in Kepler's POV for this AU, if that sounds like your jam. I'm probably gonna write them anyway, but, like, validation is nice.
>   * I have a poorly organised, disjointed tumblr that I visit on occasion: raylangivins.tumblr.com. Say hi if ya like!
> 



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